When they set side by side
the words to unwind you
from the song inside the mist,
when they can name the notes,
describe in detail
the frequency below your bones,
I hope they write it down,
in years and years of copperplate
thousands of pages
perfect and brittle and unmanageable
make a reliquary of my longing.
I hope there is something at the end of this
to give shape to all our struggle,
meaning to all the moments
where we empty handed
lay alone and awake.

I could always hear you
above the stuttering, shuffling crowd.
And I could always hear you
behind the back of my hand
sharp breath and roaring smile
and I could always hear you
again
if I had my way.